Martial taps the end of his cigarette. Dissatisfied, he starts rolling it again.

“Smart kid,” he says. “I watched your last video. Some twelve thousand views, no?”

“Enough to pay you back, and buy Farian a new lens.”

“What an age,” Martial says. “Getting paid for people to click on a box.”

“The modern world has its charms,” I reply. “Speaking of which, sun’s rising.”

He glances out, nods once. “Seventh stall. Your ashes are waiting.”

I thank him and head that way. He and I both know the sun won’t touch the ranch for another twenty minutes, but talking with Martial makes me nervous these days. He’s a man of hints. Idle comments intended to stir me up. Too often he talks about the Races with Farian. He thinks I have a chance to be chosen as this year’s Qualifier. There’s also a chance I’ll be devoured by wolves, but I’m not betting on either one. Martial was chosen all those years ago, and a man who’s been struck by lightning always thinks it’s likely to happen again.

Opening the seventh stall, I find the ashes piled neatly in a metal box. I lift them up, careful with the lid, and start my search for Farian.

The land stretches north and south of the barns, and even though the estate’s massive, Farian’s been complaining about the shots getting stale. Like me, though, he knows we’re lucky to even have this option. I find him at the south end of the property, navigating the low limbs of Martial’s lonely shoestring tree. He doesn’t like climbing, but by the time I reach him, he’s wedged fifteen feet in the air. The mountains glow with coming gold. I frown up at him.

“You’re going through all this trouble to film a Stoneside rebirth?”

Farian shoots me a furious look. “You serious? Why would you do Stoneside again?”

I grin at him. “Just snacking on you, Farian.”

He flicks me off, laughs, then almost drops his camera. We both gasp, then laugh again when he catches it to his chest. He shakes his head, like I’m the one who almost dropped the thing.

“I hope you have something good for me,” he says, glancing back through the branches. “I think this lighting will be flawless. It’s the only time we’ve ever done a camera angle this high, you know? I’m thinking of doing some crosscutting for this one, if you ride well.”

“Crosscutting,” I say. “Glad to hear that. I was going to suggest…crosscutting.”

He makes a face. “It’s when you—”

When he sees my face, though, he goes quiet. We’ve played this game too many times. He talks like a textbook and I end up…distracted. He gets annoyed; I get mad.

“You film. I ride. It’s simple.”